Chapter 1 #2
"Because half the hockey team is sitting at the corner table glaring at you."
I glance over, as I didn’t see them as I walked in. She's not exaggerating. Five guys in Thornhill Hockey jackets, all staring at me with varying degrees of hostility.
Carter isn't among them. Small mercies.
"They can glare all they want. I'm here to work, not make friends."
But I'm hyperaware of them all morning. The way they whisper when I pass, the way they deliberately make loud comments about "fake news" and "bitter journalists."
At nine, one of them, a freshman I don't recognize, comes up to order.
"Medium coffee. Black." He slides money across the counter. "And hey, nice article. Really balanced reporting."
The sarcasm is thick enough to cut.
"Thanks. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Watch your back. Captain's pissed and when Carter's pissed, people tend to regret it." He walks away before I can respond.
Isla appears at my elbow. "That was a threat."
"That was a child playing a tough guy." But my hands are shaking slightly as I make the next drink.
The rest of the shift passes without incident, but the tension doesn't leave. By ten, when I'm finally free, I'm exhausted, wired and dreading tonight's interview.
I spend the afternoon in class, then the library, researching Carter Lynch.
What I find is impressive and infuriating.
Carter Lynch, 22, Senior
· Captain of Thornhill Hockey, three years running
· Psychology major (surprising)
· From Minneapolis, Minnesota, hockey royalty, his father played in the NHL
· Projected second or third round draft pick
· Led the team to championships his sophomore and junior years
· Known for aggressive play style and fierce loyalty to teammates
· Multiple incidents of unsportsmanlike conduct on his record
· Academic probation freshman year, mysteriously cleared
In the photos he looks frustratingly attractive, 6'2", dark blonde hair, sharp jawline, the kind of build that comes from years of athletic training. Blue eyes that look cold even in team photos.
He's exactly the type I usually avoid. Cocky athletes with too much privilege and not enough self-awareness.
Of course, I have to spend the next four weeks shadowing him.
At 5:45, I pack up my stuff and head to the campus rink where I told him to meet me. It's neutral territory, public enough that he can't pull anything, but private enough for a real conversation.
The rink is mostly empty. A few figure skaters practicing on the far end. The zamboni is making its rounds.
I sit in the bleachers and wait. At 5:58, the door opens and Carter Lynch walks in.
He's bigger in person than in photos. Broader. More presence. He's wearing jeans and a Thornhill Hockey hoodie, his hair slightly damp like he just showered after practice.
He spots me and starts up the bleachers. I stand to meet him, refusing to let him have the height advantage.
When he reaches me, he stops two rows down. Close enough to talk, far enough to maintain distance.
"Hayes." A shiver moves through me, as he says my name..
"Lynch."
"Nice article. Really painted me in a great light." Well his tone is definitely telling me he's pissed off.
"I didn't paint you at all. I reported facts."
"Facts." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You interviewed three former players, anonymously and called it facts. That's not journalism. That's a hit piece."
"Those players had legitimate complaints. Hazing, harassment, academic pressure—"
"All of which I've been working to change since I became captain, but you didn't mention that.
You didn't mention the new team policies or the mandatory consent training or the zero-tolerance stance I've implemented.
" He climbs up one more row, and suddenly we're at eye level.
"You wrote what you wanted to write. A story that fits your narrative. "
"My narrative is the truth."
"Your narrative is 'hockey players are bad, toxic masculinity ruining sports.' It's lazy. Reductive and it's going to cost us recruits, sponsors, maybe even games because now our team is defending themselves instead of focusing on playing."
"If your team is more focused on defending a culture than fixing it, that proves my point."
His jaw clenches. "This interview is going great."
"This isn't the interview. This is me telling you that I won't be bullied into writing puff pieces that ignore reality."
"And this is me telling you that if you're going to write about my team, you better actually know what you're talking about.
" He pulls out his phone. "I'm sending you the practice schedule.
You're required to attend. You want behind-the-scenes access, you're going to get it.
Every drill, every team meeting, every conversation.
You're going to see exactly what this team is really like. "
"Fine."
"Fine." He turns to leave, then stops. "And Hayes? For the record, I don't need to bully you. You're going to bury yourself when you realize you were wrong."
"I wasn't wrong." I shout as he walks away from me.
"We'll see."
He leaves, and I'm left standing in the bleachers, my heart pounding with adrenaline and something else I refuse to name.
This is going to be a very long four weeks.
***
That night, I meet Isla and Ivy at Ivy's room for an emergency debrief.
"He's an asshole," I announce, dropping onto Ivy's bed.
"We could have told you that," Ivy says, handing me wine in a mug. "All hockey players are assholes. It's like a requirement."
"He's worse than your standard asshole. He's a self-righteous asshole who thinks he's right about everything." I moan about him as I sip on my wine.
"So... exactly like you?" Isla suggests sweetly.
I throw a pillow at her.
"I'm serious. He's going to make this impossible. He's already trying to control the narrative, forcing me to see things his way."
"And you're going to let him?" Ivy asks.
"Hell no. But it's going to be exhausting."
"When's the first real interview?" Ivy asks, filling her glass again.
"Tomorrow. 6 AM. He scheduled it during his morning skate just to fuck with me."
"Six in the morning?" Isla winces. "That's evil."
"That's Carter Lynch." I take a long drink of wine. "But I'm not backing down. If he wants to play games, I'll play and I'll win."
"Famous last words," Ivy mutters.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just... be careful. Guys like that, they're used to winning and they don't like it when someone challenges them."
"Good thing I don't care what he likes." I snap, and shake my head. I’ve spoken to him once and he's already making me angry.
Later, alone in my room, I pull up the photos of Carter Lynch again. Study his face. The cold eyes. The set jaw. The posture that screams confidence bordering on arrogance.
He's going to be a problem, but I've never backed down from a problem in my life.
And I'm not about to start now.
Bring it on, Lynch.
Let's see who breaks first.